


Dust to Dust

by winter156



Series: Devil Wears Prada Drabbles [3]
Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 15:03:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1514786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter156/pseuds/winter156
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follows "It Was You"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust to Dust

It wasn’t their eyes. It wasn’t what they said. It wasn’t their laughter. That gave them away. They were just lonely.

“This is worse.” It was said without inflection, an answer to the breathy question the editor posed before the journalist roughly pushed into the soft flesh between spread thighs.

It took Andrea six months, three men, and one woman to figure out that Miranda had ruined her for anyone else. No one quite measured up to the ideal the editor had imprinted into her skin, her mind, her heart.

Miranda knew the same thing in the space of time it took Andrea to walk out the door.

Pride and stubbornness forbade either from retracting the separation. And foolishness pressed them to trudge forward with anyone—everyone—else.

Both the editor and the journalist knew the futility of it when their eyes would meet across a sea of people at the odd party that the editor graced with her presence and that the journalist endured with quiet impatience. Each would have a handsome man at her side. The new Mr. Priestly on Miranda’s arm. And, the architect, who put an expensive diamond on a slender left hand, on Andrea’s arm.

They were mirror images, one reflecting the other. Neither was fooled by the pretense. Neither had the wherewithal to resist the other’s pull. Neither would admit fault. So in dark secluded rooms and corners, out of earshot of the world, Miranda would fuck Andrea, and Andrea would fuck Miranda. Without pleasure. Without satisfaction. Rings burning the flesh underneath the cold metal.

Because her heart was younger and more sensitive to the invisible cracks making it hurt with every breath she took, Andrea broke first. Her head pressed against a cool wall, her hand ensconced between sticky thighs, her love hemorrhaging from her chest, the journalist whispered “don’t marry him” like she was telling the editor “I love you.”

It wasn’t until several months later at an award ceremony honoring the journalist that they saw each other again. Without men. Without rings.

Their gazes met across all the empty places between them with _maybe_ reflected across blue and brown irises. Without conversation, Andrea and Miranda knew the walls needed to be burned down.

They’d been lonely, too long.


End file.
